Chapter 5 - Karter
The dark bruising peeking out from under the black athletic support tape around my wrist was Aleksey’s fault, which probably explained why he couldn’t stop sneaking glances at my hand.
We sat across from each other in the library sub-basement, breathing in recycled air that smelled of old paper. My only goal for the three o’clock hour was to get through chemistry without throwing a punch.
Normally, keeping the peace was easy. I’d done it my whole life. But sitting across from Aleksey, the air in my lungs tightened. I tried to pretend to study, and the silence was tense, filled with the memory of his hand pinning my wrist to this exact table three days ago.
Aleksey’s eyes tracked my taped wrist as if it personally offended him.
“If you’re done admiring the athletic tape,” I said, sliding the textbook toward him, “page twenty-two.”
“I didn’t know they sold guilt at the campus trainer’s office.”
“They don’t. They give it out for free. But tutoring’s mandatory. You’re welcome.”
There was a beat of silence as his lips thinned. “I didn’t mean to grab you that hard,” Aleksey finally said.
“That was almost an apology.”
“It’s not.” His voice was flat, but not hostile.
I tapped the open page. “Then let’s get through the chapter.”
A few days ago, Coach Corby had called me into his office after morning skate, and he hadn’t wasted time on small talk.
“The team’s fractured, kid,” he said. “And you and Zotov are at the center of it. I don’t blame you.
You’re new, and this division in the team has been going on a long while.
But,” Coach paused to pinch the bridge of his nose with a sigh, “there was nearly a team brawl on my ice, and now my locker room’s split down the middle.
” He popped the cap off his pen and clicked it back on.
“I’ve got academic advisors champing at the bit to suspend Zotov.
The admin is looking for an excuse to clean house, but we need Zotov on this team.
So here’s how this works: you tutor him.
You get his grades up. You fix whatever this thing is between you two, because I’m not losing my senior enforcer, you, or any one of my players to a goddamn pissing match. ”
The chair I sat on creaked under me. “And if he fails?”
“Then I bench you right alongside him.” Corby leveled his gaze. “This way, you’re both accountable to each other. He needs your help to stay on the team. And it gives you a reason to actually give a shit if he passes.”
He hadn’t phrased it as a request.
“If you tank the quiz tomorrow, we both get benched,” I said now across the library table. “I don’t need your guilt. I need you to pass.”
Aleksey finally looked down at the paper. He didn’t argue. He stared at the page, his hands resting flat on the table.
Seeing him try threw me off. The guy was huge, built to break people on the ice. But right now, the deep line between his eyebrows showed how hard he was struggling to focus.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Aleksey muttered. “Where did the two come from?”
“You have to balance the equation.” I leaned forward, pointing at the numbers. “Since hydrogen is diatomic, you need a coefficient of two on the other side.”
“So I add it?”
“You multiply.”
Aleksey let out a long breath. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Multiply.”
He looked a wreck. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes. I knew he worked nights—most of the scholarship guys had to—and between that and hockey, his aggressive enforcer act had worn down to nothing.
“You’re falling asleep,” I told him.
“I don’t sleep,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I keep moving.”
“That’s a terrible strategy.”
“It’s worked out for me so far.”
“Barely,” I pointed at the next problem. “Try this one.”
Aleksey stared at the equation for a long moment. Then he dragged the notebook closer with two fingers, like it might bite.
“For someone who body-checks guys into the middle of next week for fun,” I said, “you’re surprisingly scared of a little math.”
He didn’t look up. “Hitting people has rules I understand.”
“So does chemistry.”
“No, chemistry has invisible rules. Made up by dead guys who hated everyone.”
“Pretty sure Mendeleev didn’t hate anyone.”
“He hated me specifically.” Aleksey underlined the problem without solving it. “All the way from the grave. It’s impressive.”
A laugh almost climbed up my throat. I killed it before it could surface, but something on my face must have slipped, because Aleksey glanced up. He stared at me for half a second too long.
A stray red pen sat near the binding of the textbook. Aleksey reached for it just as I went for it at the exact same time.
Our fingers collided.
Tension spiked through me. I expected a sneer. I expected him to shove my hand away.
Instead, Aleksey froze. He didn’t pull his hand back.
I also froze. And I didn’t move my hand away either. Yet, Aleksey didn’t look like he was trying to mess with me; he just looked as though he didn’t have the energy to care.
“You’re going to burn out,” I said softly.
Aleksey stared down at our touching hands. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Everyone has a choice.”
He scoffed. “Of course you would think that.” He finally pulled his hand back, sliding the red pen toward his notebook. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.”
He looked up. Dark circles carved hollows beneath his eyes. And the scar along his jaw looked less threatening.
“If I tank my GPA, I’ll lose my scholarship,” Aleksey snapped, setting the pen down. “And then I’m back in Detroit with nothing. So I don’t take fucking breaks.”
His blunt honesty caught me off guard.
There was no performance in it, just the cold, hard reality of his life. After our rocky start, I expected him to tell me to screw off, not to actually be open with me. It threw me, but the instinct to back away faded.
I forced my hand to relax around my pen.
“We still have ten more minutes,” Aleksey muttered, noticing I’d gone still.
“I know.” I pulled the textbook back toward the center of the table. One more problem sat unfinished at the bottom of the page, the answer half-scratched in his cramped handwriting. “Finish this one, Aleks. Then we’re done.”
We spent the rest of the session in quiet. The anger had drained out of the room, leaving a charged silence behind. I kept my eyes on the textbook, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the rough warmth of his hand.
When the hour was finally up, I packed my bag quickly and left for the dining hall.
I thought finding a crowd would help clear my head, but a few hours later in the athletic dining hall, I felt more isolated than ever. The loud clatter of ceramic plates echoing against the high ceilings was grating.
I sat wedged between my brother, Trenton, and a few other legacy players, trying my best to project normalcy. Tracing circles on my plate, I pushed a dry piece of chicken around.
“You’re quiet today, Kart,” Elliot said. He bumped my shoulder. “Tutoring finally fry your brain?”
“Just tired.”
Trenton leaned back. He pointed his fork at me. “Zotov will do that to you.”
“He’s been fine,” I said.
Trenton scoffed. “I don’t know why Coach hasn’t cut him yet. He’s a penalty waiting to happen.”
I didn’t answer. Anxious energy made me jittery.
The conversation only reminded me of the tightrope I’d been walking lately.
I was trying to fit in, but I was constantly caught between the quiet resentment of the scholarship kids I lived with at the Ice House, and the snide, light-touch remarks of the legacy group.
Guys like Trenton didn’t understand why I’d chosen off-campus housing, viewing it as a bizarre snub against my own kind. I didn’t fit in with my housemates, and I clearly didn’t fit in here.
Looking one table over, I caught Aleksey staring right at me. His gaze locked onto mine with an expression that hardened into stone, pulling the thick white scar along his lower face taut.
He’d heard them. Our tables were close enough, and Trenton never bothered to lower his voice.
“Anyway,” Trenton went on. He looked at Elliot. “Did you see the new freshman walk-on’s today?”
“They looked decent,” Elliot offered.
“They looked like total disasters,” Trenton corrected. “Let’s hope none of them pull a Pearson.”
A few guys at the table chuckled. It sounded tight and ugly. Elliot shifted in his seat. He stared at his water glass and didn’t laugh.
I set my fork down. “Who is Pearson?”
The table went dead silent. Trenton looked at me. “He was before your time.”
“He was a freshman goalie,” a senior defenseman added. “Had good stats. Then someone caught him behind a bar downtown with some townie guy.”
Both of my hands clamped onto the edge of the table. “With a guy?”
“Yeah.” Trenton took a quick sip of his soda. “He lost his scholarship soon after due to ‘conduct unbecoming of a Ridge Cross athlete’.” Trenton made finger-air quotes with his hands.
“Nobody else would touch him after that,” the defenseman said. “Total career suicide.”
Trenton smirked. He looked around the table. “So, you know. Don’t go bunking with freshmen.”
The guys snickered again, and a forced laugh scraped my throat.
I’ve got nothing to worry about, I thought to myself. I’m just... stressed. And kind of hyper-aware of a particular guy who keeps getting in my space.
But the harsh reality of Trenton’s joke sat on the table like a loaded gun. It didn’t matter what I called this weird, tight feeling I got when I was around Aleksey.
If anyone else noticed it—if anyone even suspected I was looking at Aleksey the wrong way—I could end up like Pearson.
My fingers locked around my water glass in a death grip.
Elliot frowned, leaning into me. “Earth to Karter. You haven’t heard a word anyone’s said for five minutes.”
“I’m just thinking about my study schedule,” I said quickly.
“Right.” Trenton checked his watch and stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Anyway, time to go. Coach wants us in early to watch some film.”
Elliot grabbed his bag. “Are you heading with us?”
I gripped my water glass. “Nah, I’ll catch up. I want to finish this.”